(Source: quietrauma, via dissosiation)
hands so bloody, tastes like honey
ask me something?me, drinking tea: pls leaf water….sage my body of the demons of my past…steam my colon…let me know peace
me, drinking coffee: I beg of u bean juice….cleanse me of the curse of sleep….make my heart beat like a tribal drum in ceremony….let me conquer this building
(via thebootydiaries)
i’m assuming by now you’ve all read about the christian missionary who was killed while trying to convert the uncontacted indigenous north sentinelese tribe in india – which is, in fact, illegal, because the tribe has had absolutely no contact with the outside world and is therefore incredibly vulnerable to foreign contagions and diseases – but what a lot of stories are leaving out is that the guy actually spent several hours on the island, long enough to speak with the members of the tribe and “sing worship songs to them,” before members of the tribe killed him. and he brought along a backpack with some personal possessions, which remained on the island and were handled by members of the tribe. which is to say he fully could have unwittingly infected the tribe with some lethal disease that could wipe all of them out. what kind of narcissistic sociopath.
(via localsinner)
at some point, i have to learn to feel emotions openly.
someday we’ll stop texting each other goodnight and start mumbling it into each other’s shoulders
(via the-thought-of-you)
It’s all happening. They’re here. Zeppelin are here. They are here. They’re at the Plaza. Sapphire and Miss Penny Lane are there too. They’re all staying under the name Emily Rugburn.
(via seasonoftheswampwitch)